<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Marbleqsue by daisygonezu</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28476369">Marbleqsue</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisygonezu/pseuds/daisygonezu'>daisygonezu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Worship, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining that turns into Porn, Shower Sex, thigh worship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:48:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,270</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28476369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisygonezu/pseuds/daisygonezu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d pray to any God out there if it meant he could distract himself enough to get some decent sleep that night, but it appeared that the only person he’d be praying to was Miya Atsumu</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>362</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Marbleqsue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>happy new year! let’s kick off 2021 with some porn :)</p><p>here’s the thing, i finished writing this twenty minutes ago and i’m also sufficiently high, so if it starts to read progressively worse towards the end, please spare me some mercy and let it slide. i’ll edit this eventually. </p><p>the breakdown:<br/>— msby era, pre-olympics but close to it<br/>— bokuto calls attention to atsumu’s deliciously large thighs and kiyoomi takes notice<br/>— seems like atsumu is being subtle but he is absolutely not<br/>— kiyoomi is not subtle in the slightest</p><p> </p><p>as always, u can find me on twitter @daisygonezu !</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The showers in the MSBY Black Jackals’ training facility were top notch, the cream of the crop when it came to locker room appliances, and Kiyoomi thanked his lucky stars for that every day. From the adjustable pressure emitter to the deliciously tall shower head that never needed to be repositioned to accommodate height, showers at the facility were almost as satisfying as the ones in his own apartment. Kiyoomi wouldn’t change anything about the routine he’d set up for himself after practices—hydrate, wash, change clothes, go home, repeat—but it felt as though the time he spent lingering within his personalized, steamy cubicle increased by the hour. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Usually, he was the first to leave, the first to breach the parking garage and head home for the evening, but now, while digging the heel of his palm into his neck to massage a kink that had formed there, hot water scalding his shoulders, Kiyoomi listened to Bokuto ramble on about his weekend plans in the stall to his left. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“—going to this izakaya in Tokyo for drinks on Sunday, but I’m pretty sure he’s gonna try to make me pay, the bastard.” His tone was begrudging but not angry; Kiyoomi hadn’t really been paying attention, though he assumed the man his teammate was referring to was probably a former high school classmate or fellow Fukurodani player. Maybe that old middle blocker from Nekoma who worked for the Association now. What was his name again?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell’im you forgot y’er wallet when the tab comes around.” Atsumu suggested from another stall over. The two of them sandwiched Bokuto, but most of the conversation took place between their stalls. “Pay him back y’er share of the money later. Kuroo-san’s tricky but if ‘ya get him drunk enough he won’t notice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the stall to Kiyoomi’s right, Inunaki piped in absentmindedly, “Or tell the host ahead of time that you’ll be paying separately, that way they’ll know to split the bill.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu glanced over to see who had spoken and offered a curt nod of acknowledgement to their libero before ducking his head beneath the faucet, frisking away wet suds and foam. He needed a root touch-up—the blonde was fading rapidly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bokuto turned towards him and snapped his fingers into the shape of a gun with a delighted expression, “Good thinking, Naki-san!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought that was the logical choice...” He responded cautiously, trying and failing to hide the disappointment on his face, “Did that idea not occur to you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No!”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Kiyoomi’s abrupt laugh came out as a scoff, and suddenly all eyes were on him. Inunaki was flattered. Who would’ve thought </span> <em><span class="s2">the</span></em> <span class="s1"> Sakusa Kiyoomi would crack up at a stupid jab like that one? When he realized that Bokuto was drilling holes into the side of his face with how intently he stared, a deep scowl quickly overtook the amused mask from before. “What?”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Kinda weird that y’er still here, Omi-kun. Aren’cha finished yet?” Atsumu’s voice was muted by the shower, just barely loud enough for him to hear over his own. Bokuto nodded in agreement, lathering his arms in a fresh layer of body wash. His loofa was neon orange; it reminded Kiyoomi of, well, Hinata. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Inunaki cranked the handle in his stall to one side and shook the excess water from his hair before stepping out onto the tiles with a towel wrapped around his hips, “I’m heading out. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“G’night!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“See ‘ya, Naki-san!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their gazes shifted back to Kiyoomi. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The water feels nice,” He answered simply, “And it was hot in the gym today. More germs.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The thought of it made him recoil. Dripping down Barnes’ neck, beading along Meian’s brow line, coating Thomas’ exposed collarbones. They were all grown men with a musculature more durable than the average person’s, and the exertion required to perform their jobs made for a slick sheen of sweat that covered their bodies from head to toe by the end of each practice. Obviously, Kiyoomi was going to clean himself for a bit longer than he typically did. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, y’er not wrong about that. These showers’re like a little slice of heaven,” Atsumu chirped, running a hand up his pecs with the bar of soap he kept in a plastic box in his caddy, “The one I’ve got at home ain’t nearly as fancy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi’s was plenty fancy, but the one thing it lacked was a pressure emitter. He was content with the thorough stream that pelted his back after a long day at the facility, but having the chance to turn that vigor into full-blown brutality was something he could no longer pass up. Anchored into the wall above him, the runnel of his shower head shot down at his scalp like miniature bullets, digging into the muscles and numbing the aches and pains that had accumulated throughout the day. Hinata had once stuck his hand under it and yelped at the harshness. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“</span> <em> <span class="s2">Geez, Omi-kun, are you trying to melt your skin off?</span> </em> <span class="s1">” He’d asked in bewilderment. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Of course he was. He wouldn’t have it any other way. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rinsing the last remnants of conditioner out, Kiyoomi made a final run-through with the soap, coating himself in a thin layer of slick bubbles before the water splashed against it. All three of them finished around the same time, Bokuto turning his faucet off only moments before Atsumu and Kiyoomi did. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Having been an athlete for so long, it wasn’t as if Kiyoomi hadn’t familiarized himself with the physiques of his teammates, but the pure </span> <span class="s2">brawn</span> <span class="s1"> of Bokuto’s upper body never failed to astound him. He was only a few centimeters shorter than Kiyoomi, and yet muscle mass alone accounted for an additional sixteen pounds of burliness. It was no wonder the kids loved to hug him during pre-game sponsorship promoting—he was a fucking bear. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu wasn’t quite as bulky in the chest or arms; his skin wasn’t littered with stretch marks around the armpits like Bokuto’s was, but he still radiated the kind of strength one would observe in a Greek statue, marblesque in nature, smooth, shadowed. In fact, Kiyoomi was so focused on the plains of his chest and abs that he failed to notice the clearest focal point of all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bokuto let out a swooping whistle when Atsumu stepped onto the tile, “‘Tsum-tsum, how much have you been squatting recently?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Ah, shut it—“ </span> <em> <span class="s2">What the fuck?</span> </em></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Kiyoomi made a desperate attempt to avert his gaze before either of them noticed and quickly strolled into the main locker room, rubber slides slapping against the soles of his feet as he padded toward his designated cabinet, caddy in hand. His eyes still bulged, throat clogged in disbelief. Again, </span> <em> <span class="s2">what the fuck?</span> </em></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Coach upped your reps again, didn’t he?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“By fifteen. It’s a pain in the ass, literally,” He sighed, glancing down at his thighs in exhaustion, “My glutes are sore. M’gonna need to custom order my pants if he keeps this shit up.” </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Kiyoomi heard a resounding crack then, immediately followed by a screech from Atsumu. The sheer volume of it made him jump, and when he whipped around to identify the source, he saw Bokuto keeled over, wheezing, and Atsumu pathetically cradling his hamstring with what looked to be a severely red handprint on it. Kiyoomi’s eyes zeroed in on the limb, pupils dilating in wonderment—</span> <em> <span class="s2">what would it feel like if he squeezed?</span> </em> <span class="s1">—but when Atsumu groaned in pain, his eyes shifted up to his face and resumed their neutrality.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You should probably ice that,” He said, “Bokuto, you’re gonna get him benched for limping around next practice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bokuto was still overwhelmed by breathlessness at the stunt he’d just pulled, clutching his stomach with a cough into his forearm. He was far enough away that Kiyoomi wasn’t too bothered by it, but the fact that he hadn’t fully changed into his clothes yet was cause for concern. He made quick work of toweling off the wet spots on his arms and torso, slipping into fresh briefs before sliding a pair of joggers up his legs. By the time he finished pulling a plain t-shirt over his head, Bokuto had calmed down and Atsumu was stationed in front of his own locker, preparing to drop his towel. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">When the white cotton hit the floor, Kiyoomi felt his diaphragm spasm as all of the oxygen in his lungs became locked in place. </span> <span class="s2"><em>Don’t make a sound</em>. <em>Don’t move an inch. Don’t you dare blink, Kiyoomi, or you’ll miss it.</em></span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Glorious, lustrous tanned skin, scattered with peach fuzz that darkened as his eyes drew closer to Atsumu’s calves. There was a single freckle on his hipbone—Kiyoomi fought the primal urge to nip at it. Flames of heat licked up his cheeks, blood boiling just below the surface as he drank in every sight Atsumu had to offer. He knew it was an exaggeration, but it looked like Atsumu’s thighs were twice the size of Kiyoomi’s head. Of course they weren’t </span> <span class="s2">that</span> <span class="s1"> large, but it was damn close. Kiyoomi felt dizzy. He needed to go home, drink some tea—anything to get those images out of his mind. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goodnight,” he mumbled, hastily making his way to the exits before stopping to remind, “Make sure you ice that, Miya.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Huh? Oh, yeah. G’night, Omi-kun.” Atsumu didn’t even turn around to look at him properly, just raised a hand over his shoulder in a lopsided wave with one hand while tugging his boxers on with the other. </span> <em> <span class="s2">Stop looking at his ass, Kiyoomi</span></em><span class="s1">. “I’ll see ‘ya tomorrow.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goodnight!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The drive back to his apartment was difficult. His knees felt stiff and it hadn’t occurred to him that he was grinding his teeth until a painful jolt to the head became a horrendous migraine. The dim lighting in his complex’s parking garage made it worse for wear, and when he finally clambered into his apartment after a frustratingly slow ride in the elevator, he locked himself in the bathroom with a grimace. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Of all his teammates... of all the people Kiyoomi knew... </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“<em>Fuck</em>.” It was only a flash, only the briefest of daydreams, but Kiyoomi saw himself nestled between those thighs, tongue pressed against the firm, supple skin before him, and </span> <em> <span class="s2">moaned</span></em><span class="s1">. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’d pray to any God out there if it meant he could distract himself enough to get some decent sleep, but it appeared that the only thing he’d be praying to that night was Miya Atsumu, chanting that name like a hymn each time his fist curled around the tip of his cock in the mirror above the sink. It was already past midnight and he was in his shower again, rubbing one out to the vision of black clad shorts, riding up miles and miles of sinewy muscle. Cum decorated the dark backsplash as off-white speckles, and Kiyoomi watched it slip down the drain in utter mortification. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hands and feet were pruned by the time he trudged back into his bedroom, far too exhausted to even consider throwing on a clean shirt before collapsing onto the blankets. Every nerve in his body felt thick with fog and anxiety, unclear in its intentions. How would he get through the rest of the season now that he’d unwillingly suffered this epiphany? Before unconsciousness consumed him, Kiyoomi heard Atsumu’s laughter somewhere far away, echoing in the depths of his skull. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He woke up feeling wretched. The inability to breathe through his nose should’ve been a clear indicator, but Kiyoomi refused to admit he had a cold until Iwaizumi Hajime, visiting on behalf of Coach Hibarida of the National Team, openly scolded him in front of Coach Foster. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sakusa-san,” he asked, “Why are you here?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hinata and Bokuto were craning their necks to get a better view of the confrontation from the court; in his periphery, Kiyoomi could see Meian hurl a ball at their heads.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We have practice,” his voice was a dead giveaway, clogged and raspy with fatigue, “Can’t miss it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Iwaizumi raised a brow, “Go home.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Foster nodded along with him, “It’s alright. Get some rest. You’ll make yourself feel worse if you push it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi could only adhere to the demands, sluggishly packing up his things in the duffel he always brought to practice with him while the rest of the Jackals carried on with their normal rotation. Atsumu watched him walk out the court’s exit, puzzled by his abnormally pallid cheeks. His run-up was slower that day, like his feet were covered in tar, cross spikes not nearly as impactful.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the locker room, Iwaizumi stuffed a thermometer into his mouth after wiping it down per Kiyoomi’s request, then fiddled around the cabinets in the medical office in search of a cold patch he could use for the kink in his neck. After about a minute, he plucked the thermometer from beneath Kiyoomi’s tongue and frowned. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have a fever. Hydrate, sleep. Don’t come back until your sinuses are clear. Keep me up to date on how your neck feels, too. It’s probably just a tweak, but you can never be too careful.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What about the drills-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t worry about them. Your health should be your top priority. Hibarida-san won’t remove you from the National Team just because of a stuffy nose, you know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So Kiyoomi went home again. He drank three Gatorades in the span of an hour, bundled up in the thickest hoodie he owned, and passed out on the couch with Marie Kondo’s furoshiki-wrapping technique serving as his lullaby. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was glad it was Friday—he had the whole weekend to get back in shape for next week’s batch of practices. For once in the last twenty-four hours, Atsumu’s damned thighs weren’t the only thing he could concentrate on. He thought about making himself a proper meal using one of the recipes his sister liked, maybe indulging in an entire day’s worth of YouTube and Netflix. His calendar was clear, and he was free to do as he pleased despite sniffling every three seconds. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He hadn’t expected a knock on his door come Sunday morning. Saturday was spent surfing through his long-neglected social media pages and catching up with his mother via FaceTime, shooting a quick text to Iwaizumi to let him know that the cold packs were working well; Kiyoomi had hoped Sunday would be much the same. But it wasn’t. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I brought’cha tteokbokki! Oh, and chai. Do ‘ya like chai? I wasn’t sure what you’d want so I gotcha something spicy.” Atsumu was dressed in athletic wear, an elastic pair of black leggings with running shorts on top. His windbreaker was dark green with rusty orange stitching along the sleeves. It had been sleeting all morning, late November’s chill insignificant compared to Atsumu’s boundless energy, and his hair was scruffed up, frizzy. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">That’s hot</span> <span class="s1">. </span> </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">Wait. No it isn’t, Kiyoomi</span><span class="s1">. </span> </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How did you get my address?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Komori-san said ‘ya liked Korean food and I was out runnin’. Y’er apartment’s on my route. Do ‘ya want it or not?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a frown, Kiyoomi widened the crack in his doorway and Atsumu waltzed in with a snicker. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Smaller than I thought’d be.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I live alone.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, duh.” Kiyoomi wasn’t sure how to respond. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He carried a weighted blanket around his shoulders like it was nothing, but the sickly pallor of his skin told Atsumu pretty much everything he needed to know. A cold, huh? It felt wrong that someone who valued cleanliness as much as Sakusa would catch one, but he was only human. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘Ya seemed fine after Thursday practice. Did’ja forget to dry your hair?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“...” Yes, Kiyoomi had forgotten. He had forgotten after his </span> <em> <span class="s2">second</span> </em> <span class="s1"> shower, when his dick was still throbbing with post-orgasmic bliss after he beat it off to the very same thighs standing in his genkan. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No wonder ‘ya got sick. Here,” Atsumu reached out with the plastic bag containing his tteokbokki, “Should be hot still.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He left the tea on the kitchen table, steam rising out of the small mouth-hole in the lid.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure thing, Omi-kun. I’ll get outta y’er hair now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi glanced at the contents of the box fondly; he was just starting to get his sense of smell back, and the tteokbokki invoked a ravenous grumble within his stomach. There was a lot of it in that one package, though...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you want some?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu’s hand was extended out toward the doorknob already, fully prepared to tug on his other sneaker and leave, but once Kiyoomi’s question was posed he stopped midway and glanced back at him with a smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure, I’ll eat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kicking his shoes off again, Atsumu padded into the kitchen and took a seat at the table, waiting patiently for Kiyoomi to grab dishes and cutlery.His hair was slowly starting to dry, regaining its golden brown color beneath the light fixture. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wash your hands.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu did so without complaint, and while his back was turned, Kiyoomi ogled the contours of his legs through those leggings, forcefully convincing himself that the only reason his mouth watered was because of the food. The chopsticks felt heavy between his fingers when they sat down across from each other, plucking bits and pieces of rice cake one by one. They’d been eating in comfortable silence, content to scroll through their phones individually while filling their bellies until Kiyoomi started to nod off in his seat. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The </span> <em> <span class="s2">intimacy</span> </em> <span class="s1"> of it all hit Atsumu like a truck. He’d glanced up from his phone lazily, planning to show his teammate a photo of ‘Samu’s latest addition to Onigiri Miya’s menu when he saw Kiyoomi’s chin tilting down onto his sternum, eyelids sinking. His chopsticks were limp in his grasp. It felt like Atsumu shouldn’t have been there to see such an open display of vulnerability.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Omi-kun?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“... Hm?” Kiyoomi’s head shot up, rubbing at his eye with the knuckles of his left hand, “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">In a moment of lapsed judgement, Atsumu wanted to kiss him. Wanted to brush his thumb against his cheek. He wouldn’t. But he wanted to. He really, </span> <em> <span class="s2">really</span> </em> <span class="s1"> wanted to. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“S’alright. Here, I can pack the food up. You ought’a go to bed.” He said, frantically moving to collect their plates and seal the remaining food back into its box. In Kiyoomi’s vision, he was a blur, a haze of muted Earth tones and the smell of grass and wet pavement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Atsumu finished stuffing the styrofoam package into his fridge, Kiyoomi was already standing in front of what he assumed was a bedroom door, leaning heavily against the wall for support. Part of the weighted blanket slipped off his shoulder, dragging the same side of his body with it like a mudslide of limbs and baggy clothes. Atsumu rushed over to press his hand against Kiyoomi’s lower back, gently ushering him into the room before he could topple onto his side. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“... Thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu’s breath was shallow in his lungs, “S’not a problem, Omi-kun.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once he’d adjusted into a comfortable position atop his mattress, Kiyoomi mustered enough strength to peek out into the empty space in front of him, searching for Atsumu somewhere in the darkness. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Miya?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“M’right here.” A tap to his knee, “Gonna head out now. You alright?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“... ‘kay. Sweet dreams, Omi-kun.” He was met with a faint snore. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Jackals didn’t have practice on Mondays, but Tuesday was easy-sailing. Kiyoomi felt refreshed—a bit sluggish, admittedly, but refreshed. His spikes were back to normal, and if he noticed that Atsumu wasn’t offering him high-fives in the same reluctant manner as he always did (because who knew if Kiyoomi would cooperate), he didn’t comment. He noticed, though. And Atsumu was dodging. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“</span> <em> <span class="s2">Atsumu</span> </em> <span class="s1">,” Coach Foster’s voice loomed over them, threatening, “Use your opposites properly.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi could see the life drain from his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Practice proceeded. Atsumu feigned ignorance and went back to clapping Kiyoomi’s back whenever he made a particularly devastating hit, and Kiyoomi kept to his routine when it ended. He chugged the rest of the water in his bottle and then downed another one entirely. Walking into the locker room with Thomas, he tried to convey something in semi-broken Japanese but managed to pull through.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good job today.” He said slowly, smiling. “Your hits were, uh, awesome.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi gave him a thumbs up, “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hinata and Coach Foster spoke to him most often given their collective understanding of English, but it was a struggle for Kiyoomi to keep up with any of the conversations he overhead. He was glad Adriah was taking the initiative to learn the language of the country whose team he played for. It made his job of being a better teammate much easier. Plus, the man was friendly. His cabinet was beside Kiyoomi’s, and they often exchanged YouTube videos of volleyball matches that had been recorded outside of Japan whilst stripping down for the showers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the process of shucking off his jersey, he pointed at Adriah’s phone screen, “Poland and Romania. Ushiwaka’s team.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ushiwaka?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ushijima Wakatoshi, Schweiden Adlers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“</span>
  <span class="s2">Ahhh</span>
  <span class="s1">.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That was pretty much the end of their conversation, but it was fine. While Adriah directed his attention to the game, Kiyoomi stepped into the tiled section of the locker room and quickly laid stakes on the same shower stall as before. It seemed that his teammates had taken notice of the territorial claim, as the pressure emitter’s position on the wall hadn’t shifted, untouched and notched up to the maximum level. The thought made Kiyoomi’s chest rumble with vindictive amusement. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bokuto was in the stall closest to the wall this time, boxed in by Hinata on his right, then Barnes, then Kiyoomi.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Say,” Inunaki occupied the stall to his right again, brow furrowed, contemplative, “Did Atsumu seem off to you today?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Miya is always off.” </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“No, no, not that. He seemed, like, </span> <em> <span class="s2">flustered</span></em><span class="s1">, almost?”</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The lid to Kiyoomi’s shampoo snapped open much more loudly than he wanted it to. “You think?” </span> <em> <span class="s2">He thought about a benign hand on his knee, a hushed voice telling him to sleep well before fading into nothingness.</span> </em></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He was definitely lost in dreamland for a while. Coach hardly ever scolds him unless Hinata or Bokuto get him wound up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi didn’t like the path they were going down. Anything regarding Atsumu had left him on edge as of recent; he couldn’t afford to dwell on the havoc that was Miya Atsumu in turmoil over something unknown, not when his overactive imagination was unguarded.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe he’s constipated.” Kiyoomi said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He heard Barnes chuckle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Inunaki sighed, “It’s just weird, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was at that moment Atsumu plodded into the showers, sidling up to the opposite wall where he was furthest away from Bokuto. The only unoccupied spaces were the two stalls between him and Inunaki, left empty either intentionally or not.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sudden modesty was startling. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Generally speaking, Atsumu was very casual about nudity. With his teammates it was to be expected; he’d even gone to a bathhouse with some of the Adlers a couple months back, barraging Kageyama and Hoshiumi with terribly indecorous compliments like the bastard he was. Kiyoomi had heard all about it from Hinata, who had tagged along with them and bore firsthand witness to just how </span> <em><span class="s2">red</span></em> <span class="s1"> Hoshiumi could get. Atsumu had returned to Osaka with a violently purple bruise on his shoulder where Hoshiumi punched him for his troubles.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now, in the midst of shampooing his freshly dyed hair (he’d done it yesterday, apparently), Atsumu kept mum, went about his business in remote silence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If something was truly bothering him , Kiyoomi wouldn’t be able to put a pin on it for the life of him. Atsumu wasn’t really the type to openly express his concerns unless it was in a safe environment, private, probably with a close-knit group of people like his brother or Suna or anybody else who played with him at Inarizaki. Not Kiyoomi. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s with the bashfulness, Atsumu?” Inunaki asked, grinning as he ladeled a handful of water onto his chest, “Feeling sheepish?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu snorted, “What? A man can’t shower alone these days?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi massaged the shampoo into his scalp slowly, fingers knotted by black curls. He kept his eyes glued shut to prevent anything from trickling in but lamented having to look away. The cardio kept Atsumu’s core lean and tight, hardly a fault to be found on that immaculate expanse of skin. He was enraptured by the dark brown happy trail he’d seen last Thursday—it was shameful to think about how much he’d sacrifice just to see it again, to lick a long, languid stripe from the bottom up to his navel. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Don’t kid yourself. We shower as a </span> <em><span class="s2">team</span></em><span class="s1">.” Inunaki joked mockingly, “Let this be your first warning.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure thing, Naki-san.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">God, Kiyoomi wanted to suck him off. </span> </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In lieu of fretting over the highly dangerous possibility of popping a boner in front of his team, Kiyoomi tilted his head back beneath the faucet, pursing his lips so he wouldn’t choke on water by accident as it bombarded his face.The heat was blinding, salacious daydreams scorched away from the backs of his eyelids. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As soon as the shampoo was thoroughly washed out, he moved onto conditioner. The cold mixture warmed quickly in his palms before he smeared it across his scalp, picking out the knots wherever he encountered them. Once again, the majority of Kiyoomi’s teammates finished before him. Hinata and Bokuto continued to banter back and forth about something he couldn’t hear as they disappeared into the main locker room again, followed shortly after by Barnes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where’d Meian-san go?” Atsumu asked, dragging a bar of soap across his ribcage.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He said he likes to shower at home.” Inunaki said playfully, “A thousand yen says he’s got a girlfriend back at the apartment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu sneered, “Y’er on. Make it two thousand, but he’s just goin’ to bed early.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Deal. Do you want in, Sakusa?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi pulled another knot loose, “Pass. Miya’s wager seems more likely, though. He complains about his sleep schedule all the time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The shower head in Inunaki’s stall trickled to a halt as he began to dry himself off with a towel perched on the hook just outside of it. “Really?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Really. If I remember correctly, his neighbors just had a baby.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Inunaki made a face, displeased with his odds now that he knew about their Captain’s residential circumstances. Of course he’d have trouble sleeping with a baby screaming all night. He couldn’t take back his wager, though. Atsumu was simpering already. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’ll confirm tomorrow mornin’,” he said confidently, “My wallet’s already feelin’ two thousand heavier.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever,” Inunaki looked grim, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goodnight.” Kiyoomi replied, Atsumu mimicking him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It didn’t take long for Inunaki to get dressed and pack up his stuff—only a few minutes later did Kiyoomi hear the loud, metallic clang of the locker room doors snapping shut behind him. With the knowledge that he and Atsumu were now alone together, Kiyoomi wanted to-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Omi-kun, are ‘ya feelin’ better?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Huh?” He blinked, glancing at Atsumu from the side as he washed out the last of his conditioner, “Yes, it was just a cold.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s good... Did’ja like the tteokbokki?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“... Cool.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Realizing he’d been unintentionally passive aggressive, Kiyoomi forced himself to speak again, “I ate the leftovers for lunch on Monday. Thanks again for buying it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu leaned atop his elbows on the cement partition separating the stalls, one hand keeping his chin propped up while the other hung loosely over the side. A friendly grin lit up his cheeks, “S’not a problem! M’glad ‘ya liked it cause I dunno what I would’ve done if you’d shut the door on me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The corners of Kiyoomi’s mouth lurched upward in what appeared to be the ghost of a smile, and Atsumu felt dizzy from the impact. Meanwhile in Kiyoomi’s stall, the absence of their other teammates compelled his erection to spring back in a matter of minutes, fully revived and aching between his legs; Atsumu’s uninterrupted attention was only making it worse. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">If he let this go on any longer, he wouldn’t be able to leave the locker room without eliciting some sort of estranged reaction from the setter, who would obviously be angry with him, right? Or disgusted? Appalled? Miya Atsumu finding him </span> <span class="s2">gross</span> <span class="s1"> was suddenly a horrifying thought, one that roiled in his gut. Ah, but at least his dick was getting soft. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">Whadd’ya know? Turns out worrying yourself into petrifaction can kill a hard-on. </span> </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi scoffed, “I wouldn’t have shut the door on you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘Ya looked so cute bundled up in y’er blankets like that. Sweet little Omi-kun, all tucked in for bed. How precious.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t actually remember you leaving,” Kiyoomi ignored the taunts, mind still in a whirl from trying to calm himself down, “The last thing I can think of was you tapping my leg. Did you actually do that or did I imagine it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu was quiet for a moment before he said, “Yup, I was with ‘ya the whole time. Wanted to make sure ‘ya slept well.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s1">They both felt the shift. </span> </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It wasn’t tangible enough for them to grab hold of, but it was present in all of their motions, each and every movement made from that point on. It was like Atsumu had unlocked the door to a secret passage leading directly into his consciousness, penetrated the barrier that divided a countless number of people into those whom Kiyoomi trusted and those he did not. Atsumu was safe territory. He was a beacon, enticing Kiyoomi’s strongest desires to be spoken into existence whether they were ambiguous or precise, displayed without fear of consequence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi reached back to turn his faucet off. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu’s head tilted, “Fer’real? You were snorin’ when-“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I woke up about an hour after you left...” Kiyoomi pushed slick hair back from his forehead, slowly rounding the corner of his stall to pace toward Atsumu’s, step by step, one breath at a time, until he had him cornered against the tiles, “Because of a dream I had.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu had watched him make his way over, feeling every bit the prey Kiyoomi made him out to be, backing into the wall like a fool. Now, with Kiyoomi blocking his only way out, Atsumu was forced to meet his gaze head-on. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His throat constricted around his next words, tongue heavy as lead against his teeth, “What- uh... what kinda dream, Omi-kun?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He inched forward, pupils blown wide in ecstasy when he finally got a peek of that patchwork happy trail again, dark against the rest of his skin. Atsumu couldn’t look anywhere but his face, yet Kiyoomi refused to meet his eyes, half-filled with shame but mostly aroused, running on pure instinct since he’d taken the necessary actions to get closer. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He crouched into a squat, eye level with Atsumu’s bare thighs, and didn’t do a thing to conceal just how hard he was when Atsumu choked back a startled cough. Not the bad kind of startled, but the kind that screamed, “</span>
  <em><span class="s2">Are we actually doing this?</span> <span class="s2">Is this really happening?</span></em>
  <span class="s1">”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi hummed, “Hmm, this kind. About these,” he brushed the pad of his finger against Atsumu’s leg and felt his entire body sag in relief, the rest of his palm melting into the skin, “Do you mind?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">It was a genuine question. He wasn’t asking Atsumu to move—he was asking him to </span> <em> <span class="s2">stay still</span></em><span class="s1">, give him </span> <em> <span class="s2">permission</span></em><span class="s1">. If he said no, Kiyoomi would leave. He would go home, drown himself in liquor, and go to practice tomorrow with a clear conscious. But Atsumu shook his head. He’d thrown a forearm across his lips in disbelief, covering the pink flush that bloomed across his cheeks and ears, peering down at Kiyoomi in awe. He used that as his cue to continue, paying no mind to the water that doused him from above.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can’t believe I didn’t notice until a week ago,” He growled, clenching and unclenching Atsumu’s thigh in a rough massage, “</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu jutted into the touch, hips struggling to support his weight as he felt himself begin to sink to the floor. Kiyoomi’s fingers were unable to wrap around half of his hamstring, but that didn’t stop him from trying. With one hand kneading into the muscles just below his glute, the other kept his pelvis pinned sturdily to the wall, lessening the potential of collapse and replacing it with a heady burn in his groin. Kiyoomi paused for a second, considering something, before laying his tongue flat against the juncture of Atsumu’s hip and laving upward, sucking until it glowed red.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu didn’t have the presence of mind to watch his cock twitch—he was already half-hard from being backed up onto the wall—but Kiyoomi noticed right away, vision torn from the thighs molded around his fingers to the cock hanging between them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Y-‘Ya don’t haf’ta-“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can I?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Atsumu felt the runnel stream down his back, only a few scattered jets slipping passed to hit Kiyoomi’s shoulders. He wondered how long the hot water would hold out, if it would run cold on them if they stayed too long. It was doubtful, given the facility’s extensive funding, but if Sakusa Kiyoomi wanted to suck his dick, Atsumu’d be damned if anything interrupted them. He pulled his arm away from his lips to get a better look, and sure enough, Kiyoomi’s face was mere centimeters away from his cock, expression hopeful, fingers still digging into his leg. The volume of his moan was nulled out by the shower, caught between only himself and the man kneeling below him. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Yeah-” He blurted, one hand automatically coming down to run through Kiyoomi’s hair, “Fuck, </span> <em> <span class="s2">yeah</span></em><span class="s1">. Yes.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi chuffed amusedly, somehow pulling off a smirk even as he dragged a trail of hot spit from the base of Atsumu’s pelvis up to his navel—<em>Kiyoomi</em></span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2"> felt an imaginary capillary burst behind his eyes as white-hot fulfillment settled in his bones</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">—then kissed his way back down. Not wanting to sacrifice his grip on Atsumu’s thighs, he wrapped it around the back and squeezed at the flesh of his ass. Hands thoroughly occupied, he had the pleasure of getting to observe Atsumu feed him the first few inches of his cock. He smelled of soap and body wash, fresh on his nose, as Kiyoomi let him use his throat like a glove. His reward was an unabashed squeeze, harsher than the last, and Kiyoomi pushing even further onto him. Atsumu’s knuckles brushed against his temple as he bobbed up and down, but he reeled back easily to tug on his hair again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And the massages only stretched on, Kiyoomi working his way down from Atsumu’s ass to his inner thigh to his calves before sliding back up again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He fought back the need to thrust as to not choke him by accident, but Kiyoomi steeled his arms once his nose was buried against Atsumu’s pelvis again, refusing to weaken the hold until desperation became so great that Atsumu could only thrust back in immediately after pulling out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi’s throat burned with how scrupulously Atsumu barreled down it, but even after several minutes of sucking and occasionally gagging, he craved it no less. Atsumu’s thighs strained against his palms with every sound he spilled, semi-coherent moans that shot vibrations up the length of his cock and filled his core with blistering heat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For a moment of blissful reprieve, Kiyoomi came up for air but maintained the connection between them, swirling his tongue around Atsumu’s cockhead and panting hotly. Kiyoomi’s hair was now smeared across part of his forehead with how brutishly Atsumu yanked at it, plunging deeper into his throat again as soon as the opportunity presented itself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Despite how fiercely he denied himself from doing so—as he didn’t want to let go of Atsumu’s thighs—Kiyoomi could no longer help but drop one hand to stroke at his own cock, throbbing from the second he and Atsumu were left alone together. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With how fervently Kiyoomi jerked into his own fist, he and Atsumu were on even playing fields after no time. Hurdling toward their finish lines became a synchronous task, merging as one and the same. Kiyoomi’s jaw clenched as he groaned around him, and Atsumu’s knees would have collapsed had he not kept him steady. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Omi- y-‘ya gotta get off-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi pulled back instantly at the warning, leaning his cheek against Atsumu’s thigh and watching from the side as his fingers brought him over the edge, cum spilling onto the tile and drifting down the drain. His legs thrummed with exhaustion at having held himself up for so long, but in a simple movement Kiyoomi stretched to his full height again, supporting Atsumu’s hips while rubbing out the last of his orgasm with a grind of the knee. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“</span><em><span class="s2">Shit</span> </em> <span class="s1">,” he gasped, falling limp on his feet, “Shit, Omi-kun.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kiyoomi was as exhausted as Atsumu, but the chance to permanently etch this into his memory couldn’t be neglected, so he watched Atsumu twitch from head to toe, chest heaving into his own, latched around Kiyoomi’s ribcage like a hug, almost. His thighs quivered. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It seemed unfair that Kiyoomi had gotten to do whatever he wanted, so Atsumu avenged himself by slotting his lips against Kiyoomi’s for a single, fiery kiss. Taken aback, his teeth knocked against Atsumu’s with a grumble, initially resistant but ultimately helpless. When he pulled away, he turned to Kiyoomi with heavy-lidded eyes and a dopey smile, resting like puddy in his embrace. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Must’a been one helluva dream, Omi-kun.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He had no idea.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>